


RIVALS.

by delibell



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Comics), Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Guardians of the Galaxy - All Media Types, Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Crack, Crude Humor, F/M, Fluff, Parody, Reader Insert, Romance, XReader, a fic where all problems would be solved if the characters just told what they're feeling, before the whole team 5 shit, dead momTM, i know im shook, peter quill is less of a dick, reader - Freeform, reader is precious and must protect
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-21
Updated: 2017-09-17
Packaged: 2018-11-16 22:55:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11262717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/delibell/pseuds/delibell
Summary: Some things are just obvious from an early age: you and Peter were meant to get along no better than a cat and a dog. And not the modern spin on a cat’s and a dog’s relationship either (none of that Disney fun-loving BS). No, we’re talking about that good old fashioned thirst for blood, spite and rivalry.Only that your situation really was Disney like. Which is ironic, since you’ve been raised to spit in anyone’s face that even mentions the name ‘Starlord’.[DON'T OWN ANYTHING, JUST SORTA THE PLOT]





	1. I need your help!

The current state of the ship and its crew can be described in one word: bored.

Whiskey. In Terra it’s high noon but no one really counts space hours so why the hell not? Peter Quill sits idly drinking by his cluttered table, trying to drone out the occasional buzzing and clatter and the piercing sound of squeaky metal by clogging all of his senses with alcohol. There isn’t a particular reason to indulge in daytime drinking festivities, but there simply isn’t anything better to do so he had helped himself to a glass a little while ago. He has finished three in total. Now he sits silent, his mind sometimes drifting out of these cramped walls of his beloved spaceship, branching further and further into the unseen horizon and onto a lonely planet that is just waiting to be looted. His fingers tap of the table and he shakes his head again: that stupid _fucking_ clanking!

Gamora’s lips tighten into a thin line as she continues to keep a close eye on the ship’s monitor, making sure it steers in the right direction. Which really is just a waste of time since it seems like the whole Galaxy has taken a day off: no sudden storms, no space police, not even an asteroid astray. The captain’s chair, though comfortable, grows stiff after a while of not moving. Her arms fold over her chest and she shifts from leg to leg. Her eyes drift back and forth from the processor to the map dully, as if trying to find any bit of excitement in the task. Or anything, really. She shuts her eyes painfully. The clanking is more annoying than usual, that’s for sure.

But where is it coming from? _Too close_ , the only human-like figures think in union. Rocket had dismantled and re-made his makeshift bomb for possibly the tenth time (in counting!), and while yes, he has the silent pleasure in knowing he’s getting on the crews nerves, not even this activity can satisfy the impeccable feeling of absolutely NOTHING happening. He figured making an explosive out of a hairdryer will surely occupy his mind for at least until something interesting happens, but so far not even a message from anyone (the message really doesn’t have to involve cash or danger. A simple ‘hello’ from a long lost friend sounds more exciting than this). And so he sits and fidgets with spare parts, his mood never spiking from ‘mildly entertained’.

No one really knows what Groot is up to, but from the occasional exclamation of his name echoing from somewhere in the ship, the crew breaths out a sigh of relief: Groot is still here. Maybe it’s not even a sigh; they just take a collective breath since the air-conditioning is broken.

Suddenly, a big red dot appears on the map and approaches at an alarming rate. Gamora blinks, jumping from her seat and slamming her palms on either side of the map monitor, surprised that on such a lazy day there is something moving their way at an incredibly fast pace. Her eyes bore into the distance; in the blankness and the occasional shimmer of faraway stars she notes the object swirl and fall from her field of vision. She narrows her eyes – _is it a ship_?... Her further questions are cut short by the beeping. This calls for the whole crew’s attention.

_0.82 Yellow Stripe is requesting to dock._

“Oh no,” Gamora barely surpasses a jerk as Peter’s voice ring just in her ear, “no _no no_.” in one swift move she is nudged out of the way, “Where is the _deny-cancel-delete-forget it ever happened_ button?”

“Friend of yours?” Rocket inquires. Peter snorts.

“More like arch-nemesis.” He mumbles, about to press the big red button as in ‘ _No, go away’_ , but Gamora beats him to it and with all her force pushes the friendly green one that simply states ‘ _Invitation accepted_!’.

“The _hell_ did you do that for?!”

She stares at him, her palm refusing to leave the safety of the green glossy surface in case Peter decides to claw at her fingers, “ _Look_ , nothing has been happening. Zip. _Nada_. If your arch-nemesis, as you put it, decided to suddenly drop by something has to be going on. _Something_ we’re not aware of.” Silence. “People like that don’t just pay a visit out of the blue.”

“ _Yeah_ , or maybe she just came to finally murder me.”

Gamora smiles, though it’s hardly affectionate. Her eyes sweep the weapons stocked in one of the closer lockers, Rocket holding his hairdryer-explosive and lastly Groot curiously sticking his head out through the door to see what the commotions is about. Finally, she returns to Peter, “I think we got you covered.” The chilling tone of her voice leaves no room to argue and the ship falls quiet. Peter finishes his glass. Gamora loosens her grip on the button as a heavy ‘ _dunk’_ rattles the whole spaceship. Groot and Rocket tip-toe closer just in case of combat.

This continues for a while. The air tension filled, growing in anticipation and curiosity with every new sound the _0.82_ makes as it docks. A cloud of cold smoke leaks from the doorway Groot entered minutes ago and the team shares a look – _is this really happening_? Rocket tightens his grip on the explosive, though seeing as Peter seems anything but alarmed, disturbed, or in any other way ready for danger with the capital D, he merely raises a brow and slumps his shoulders. The way this is panning out, it seems no fight is going to break out. Rocket’s previous excitement on testing out the bomb grows bitter and he curses under his breath. If anyone heard him, no one said a thing.

“ _Jesus Christ_!” A female voice rings out from the other room, riddled with disgust and Peter can’t help the smirk that grows on his lips. He raises his glass to take a triumphant sip but remembers it’s empty. Awkwardly he sets it down on the console, ignoring the amused look Gamora sends him.

Footsteps. Heavy footsteps _. Boots with a metal hilt_ , the only girl in the crew notes as her arms fold over her chest and she stares impatiently at the doorway, trying to paint the picture of this arch-nemesis. She is pretty sure Peter was joking when he said so, but still, knowing him and his pelvic magic she might just be another pissed off ex- girlfriend. These thoughts plague her and she is even more curious than before. Something falls in the other room and another yelp escapes the captain of the small yellow ship. Finally, the short statue of the mystery woman appears in the doorway—

 _Human_ , is all Gamora registers as she takes in the delicate glow of the shorter woman’s skin in the bleak lighting of Peter’s spaceship. A bead of sweat runs from her temple and gets lost somewhere near her jaw. _And an angry human at that_. Her face is scrunched; gloved fingers soon dig into her thick black rimmed googles and slide them off. Pair of (color) eyes meet hers for the briefest of moments she looks at Peter, “ _You are sick_.”

“ _Healthy_ , actually.”

“You have serious issues, Peter. Did any of you see the engine room? Docks? _No one_? No one bothered to shine a LED light? Seems like a Picasso painting—“ Peter clears his throat loudly.

“(Title).” He addresses her. The woman, now dubbed as (Title), contemplates on whether to continue to describe her recent appalling findings or skip them entirely and never put on her goggles again. Her expression falls neutral and before Peter can say anything else, she leans onto the doorway and lowers her voice.

“Quill.”

His shoulders slump, “C’mon, it’s not that hard. _Starlord_.”

“No _fucking_ way am I calling you that.”

|*|

When the initial disgust melted off you found yourself almost comfortable being in such a… _unique_ spaceship. Unique is the only nice way you could put it without offending Peters feelings _too_ much. Introductions flew by in a flash, one moment you were casually calling Peter everything your mind could come up with instead of Starlord, and the next you were pulled closer by the curious raccoon and his tree friend. The two of them flashed you a smile: Rocket and Groot! For a moment you were surprised that they have a higher mental capacity than a goldfish. You had yet to meet people/aliens/creatures that tolerate Peter and can form a coherent sentence. Lastly you shook hands with Gamora, another reality grasping companion that is female and hasn’t slept with Peter. That trivia earned a pleasant ‘ _Oh_!’ from you. With that you moved on.

There is one particular room in ‘ _Starlords’_ spaceship you always fancied, even after the two of you broke apart. It doesn’t have a name, nor do many go down here as you realized with a quick look through your googles. The walls are made of thick glass that opens the view of the whole universe, a lone boardwalk being the only surface that can hold your and his weight. Your feet teeter over the edge and you look down: the black abyss of space illuminates the edges of your shoes. The buzzing of the motors fills the silence. It’s always silent when you go down here. The occasional footsteps from up above draw you out your thoughts of the good old days when you hated Peter’s guts less and he tolerated you more. History is a tricky thing: whilst it is important, it’s unchangeable. Your parting of ways was inevitable, especially because of his eccentric taste and your strict morale code clashing fiercely on many occasions that almost led to either your or his death. Neither of you felt badly about it.

Except now, maybe. You aren’t sure yourself. You had taken off your gloves and left on a table near a whiskey bottle that much you recall. Your bare fingers grip the metal edge you sit on, shoulder slumped, deep in thought. Through the crown of your lashes you gaze at him – he is staring straight ahead, relaxed, slightly dazed perhaps, as the verbal fight the two of you engaged in long forgotten. A soft blue light illuminates his features and you trace them carefully, trying to remember each detail with striking precision and faintly searching for the boy you knew that long ago. Same home planet, taken by the Yondu Ravager Clan and raised by it too. In the back of your mind you make a side-by side of little Peter, dressed in his pirate gear and trying to operate a gun you had constructed under the strict eye of your kidnappers, and the young adult that sits within arms-length. You find no resemblance between the two. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say they are completely different people. Then again, the last time you saw him was roughly five years ago, maybe even more.

Disappointment. Is that what you are feeling? Emotions mix and blur, just like the vast outside creeping behind these large windows. You swing your feet, a childish habit, and Peter snorts with an amused shake of his head, “Strange for you to shut your mouth for once.” You don’t take offence to that. You don’t take offence to anything, but don’t reply either. You tilt your head downwards again and stare at your feet, an action he notes and raises a curious brow, “Yo, (Title), you okay?” He asks lighthearted, leaning in just enough to be close but still minding your personal space.

It feels different somehow. When you first landed this, all of this, was an unpleasant mystery and you were beyond irritated to have made such a long and tiring trip to see a person you didn’t even want to talk to. Now, here, in the secure company of just the two of you the mood shifted drastically: from annoyance it went to heavy mixed feelings you don’t want nor are ready to voice. So instead you shrug and crack a smile. “Not really. Seeing you again is never pleasant.” There’s a tad of truth to every joke, as there is to lie, and while yes, seeing Peter again has raised some long forgotten spikes of emphatic brother-sister feelings, your sudden change from playful to serious isn’t entirely to do with him. He waits for you to continue and you are almost surprised that he doesn’t crack a stupid one-liner as a failed jab at your brooding. “I bet you know that I didn’t come here because I miss you.”

 _Ouch_ , he wants to say, but doesn’t. He nods. You continue, still not lifting your head up, “Finding you was…tough. Save me the story of running away and what-not, I don’t care. I didn’t come here to relish in old memories.” Yet you explicitly asked him to talk here, in your favorite place, despite anywhere being okay. You ignore this fact and any that fallow along with it and swing your legs again as if that would help you focus. “You have a good team. Not good _good_ , but, you know…Good.” Your throat runs dry and a spike of nervousness sparks in your chest, going all the way to your fingertips. You gaze into his eyes, feeling your heart jump when your gazes connect in the dim lighting, “I need your help.”

The weight of your words is heavy, and though your request is quiet and reserved he knows you’re desperate. You would go to someone else, to _anyone_ else, instead of him if it was whimsical or within your power. A spurge of pride. He can’t help but smirk. You frown, “Yeah _yeah_ , c’mon, _laugh it out_ , you won’t let me hear the end of this _yada yada_ , I know.” You wave him off.

“I’m going to hold this against you forever.”

“Whatever, I don’t care.” The blankness returns to your face and he knows you’re back to being serious, “Do you…Do you remember the Carnic incident?”

“You mean when you ‘ _accidentally’_ blew up a model spaceship? Of course I remember. It’s on my highlight reel.” He ponders for a minute how this is relevant, “You we’re banned from—“

“- _Entering Terra territory_.” You finished for him, the same heaviness returning to your voice as it grew quiet again. A note of pain strikes your features and Peter leans out taken aback. Turning away from him you are quick to compose yourself.

“My mom died. I want to say goodbye.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! I'm sort-of writing this for funsies since I have an obsession with Peter Quill and, well...Here it is, I guess. Dead momTM. The anime chiche. Don't take this fic too seriously unless I say so  
> Till next time xx


	2. spacestorms.

_“My mom died. I want to say goodbye.”_

Your words ring in his ears like a catchy pop song, but without a cheerful note or even a pleasant one. His bed feels rougher than usual: the mattress is cold and the spirals dig into his back, the pillow, no matter how many times he fluffs it, refuses to lay softly under his head and he can already tell that when a new dawn rises he is going to have the mother of neck pains. He crosses his arms under his head, as if that would somehow make his position more comfortable, and stares into the dark ceiling of his private bedroom. He can hear Rocket and Groot playing from somewhere in the spaceship. The clanking and screeching and smacking pierce the air every two to three seconds. Or maybe it’s the storm raging outside.

_“My mom died. I want to say goodbye.”_

It was ’89 when he met you…Or was it ’88? ’92? He frowns and irritated he shut his eyes to block out the stormy ‘weather’ and Rocket’s excited ‘ _Woohoo! Check this out, Groot_!’. Whatever, not like it matters when he first laid his eyes on you. You were just a kid then, he was too, scared out of your wits but brave enough to show some backbone when one of the other taken kids pulled on your hair. Peter included. He can see it clear as day, your two (color) pigtails and as his small hand wraps around your bright pink hairband and yanks with all of his force. He grins at the memory. Then releases a soft groan when he recalls just how hard your fist crashed into his nose.

You never talked about your mother, though. Not that he can recall. Shadows play on the ceiling, making strange figures and shapes in varying sizes. It almost feels like watching a black and white silent movie consisting of all of his memories. He knew you carried a picture of her in your locket – one of those heart-shaped knock-off silver or golden bedazzles one could get at Macy’s for 55ct. He knew this because all the girls in school used to have one, and each had a secret note: mainly the name of the girls’ crush. He had cracked open your locket numerous times just to see if there was anything inside he could blackmail you with, but each time he did the only thing that would meet him was  a small cut out picture of a smiling woman with the same color eyes as you.  _How disappointing,_  younger Peter thought, carefully putting the locket back into an empty bullet box he had taken it from. An eerie wheeze creeps through the cracks in his room and he is distracted from his memories once more. The storm outside continues to rage.

Why him? Why did you come to him? If you need to be sneaked into Terra, he can name at least fifteen people, who can do it better and with enthusiasm. No, is it something personal?

 _The Carnic incident._  It clicks in him and his jaw tenses. The two of you were raised as rivals – where Peter lacked, you prevailed and never failed to shove it in his face and vice versa. So he wasn’t as crafty, big deal, you couldn’t shoot a target for the life of you and he never did figure out was it just a lack of skill or a strict morale code. He had no trouble breaking a few bones, you on the other hand… Again, those shadows form a strange dark figure that greatly resembles that slick black model spaceship that caused your permanent ban from Terra. Yeah, so you were rivals. Peter didn’t want to physically hurt you, make you as emotionally unstable as he was – yes- but no actual bodily harm. A bright red box with three strings skillfully wired and a small microchip in between them. To anyone that knew a thing or two about engineering that core would’ve looked like a Michelangelo painting. Rivals.  _Rivals_. He cut one of the strings so you’d fail to make an impression. He never thought the consequences would be so severe.

“ _My mom died. I want to say goodbye.”_

Great, now he feels like shit.  _It happened a long time ago_ , he reminds himself, shutting his eyes again as if to get rid of that horrid look on your faces as the playful colors of fire reflect on your pale cheeks and dance inside your eyes. But to be fair, you never once said you felt bad about being banned. Annoyed, maybe, but it’s not like you wanted to go back, right?... _Right_?

The spaceship rattles violently and the hissing of a nearby pipe makes Peter jump lightly. It’s almost like a thunderstorm, except more dangerous. Their safety is completely out of his control though, so he focuses his worry on you instead and the growing guilt he’s feeling. He’s Starlord,  _The_   ** _STARLORD_** , he isn’t supposed to feel shitty over a thing he did more than fifteen years ago! And also, who knew you’d lose someone and even WANT to go back to Terra? From what you had told him, your old life sucked. Earth was lame anyway, the people in it too. First of all, there were thunderstorms and you were absolutely terrified of those—

Wait a minute. Where the hell are you?

A soft knocking on his door draws him out his thoughts once again and he doesn’t even have to wonder who stands behind it – it’s you. His voice comes out gravely and tired, but it reaches you on the other side and before long the door slides open, flooding the dark room with dim flickering light and your distorted shadow. His body stiffens almost painfully as his ears catch a faint sniffle and you stumble into his room holding your breath. He’s almost scared to move. Where will you sit? What should he say? His brain is frying and he’s suddenly terrified. His tongue twists in his mouth and he can’t find the energy to open his lips, only to panic silently.

You dunk heavily next to him, your body like a furnace spiking heat through the thin fabric of the sheet he’s tangled in. Your shoulders shake softly and again he has no idea what to do. What did he do when you were upset back in the good old days, before his playboyish ways ruined any and all chances he may have possibly had with you, before you really started to hate him for being so out there and attracting danger, before you wanted to quit this outlaw life so badly you nearly blew up the whole station (without his meddling this time)? He doesn’t quite recall, and silently he curses, coming to sit.

When someone is crying, of course, the noble thing to do is to comfort them. But if someone is trying to hide their tears, it may also be noble to pretend you don’t notice them.

“Ever seen a man so beautiful you started crying?” His words come out gentle, playful but confident, just as he had hoped and you crack a teary smile, wiping a few pesky tears away from your cheeks as you glance at him: through the dark he can see your eyes glister like scarabs, tracing every line of his face and the loopy grin he has fixed to mask just how unsure he is. It’s not exactly awkward; he wouldn’t specifically use that word. It’s just strange. You here. You being here, in general, not only in his room though it is a nice plus. You are friends.  _Were_  friends. The echoes of the big argument the two of you had had such a long time ago cling to his skin, and he knows you well enough by now that you remember it too: the look on your face betrays you, the stiffness of your shoulders and the slight quiver of your lip as if you want to say something but can’t or simply won’t.

 _Distance_. It’s distance.

“I have, actually. In my dreams.” You reply, trying to sound nonchalant but it falls a bit flat. Peter raises a brow with a smirk pulling on the corner of his lips.

“Did he look like me?”

“Dear God,  _no_.” You finish with a shaky laugh that has just a bit of life in it.

He gasps, “I’m hurt. You come into my room, disturb my beauty sleep and insult me.” He shakes a finger at you, “Do you really hate me that much?”

An eerie silence settles, it seems like even the storm calmed whatever it’s brewing. Peter didn’t expect the question to slip him and by the look on your face you didn’t either. Despite laced with humor it had more truth to it than either of you are willing to admit. Peter releases a dry chuckle and runs a hand through his hair, his mind shrilling through every corner of his brain to dig up something lighter, yet he ends up with nothing. The question hangs in the air. You gaze at him for a long while –his figure is a bit blurry from the bad lighting and, well, tears – but after a while that seems to last an eternity you avert your eyes to your feet.

“I don’t…” You rasp, “I  _never_ …” You don’t quite seem to know how to finish, but it’s enough for him. He visibly relaxes, though it’s a bit frightening how happy your answer makes him feel.

“Oh, lighten up, (Title).” He huffs, falling back into his pillows, “You have less spark in you than today’s pop music. Don’t tell me it’s the horrid rattle of death from the spacestorm that’s messing with your head.”

“Does your ship even have the safety th---“

“ _Nope_.”

You raise a brow. He sounds almost proud. “I cant believe I expected you to follow basic protocol.”

“Hey, I’m an outlaw. A  _famous_  outlaw. I don’t follow protocol. The protocol follows m—

“It really doesn’t.”

He grins. He successfully distracted you from whatever the hell was going through your head when you appeared next to his door. This playful back and forth continued for a while, the quietness from outside almost uneasy, but entirely forgotten by the two of you. You even managed to laugh a little, though it was weak and clogged by dry tears, it was still better than nothing.

All hell breaks loose when the alarms flare and dye the whole spaceship red. The spacestorm hits hard and the whole ship shakes. Your hairs stand on end, from the impact you are nearly thrown to the other side of the room but Peter’s strong hands latch onto your waist and yank you close to his chest. You suck in a breath. The alarms stop. All fall’s still.

“ _Sorry_!” Gamora’s voice rings out followed by Rocket’s cussing.

Your shoulders tremble, still struck from the sudden hit you stare blankly into the contours of his room, trying not to fall into the vortex of fear that’s slowly clouding all sane judgement you can make. Your fingers grip the sheet tightly and you don’t move, your head resting on Peter’s chest as his arm is still safely around you. It’s hot. Your cheeks burn, but you hardly feel it – it’s more of a subconscious reaction. Peter’s thumb draws circles on your side, as a way to soothe you, and after a while it actually works. It feels pleasant.  _Right_. The ship rattles again dangerously, and you shut your eyes to block out that squeaky sound and the potential danger it warms of.

Peter’s having a much harder time focusing on anything that doesn’t involve you being so close to him. Your presence takes up all and any room in his mind and he gulps, unsure of what to do next. Thankfully his body has a mind of his own – his hand squeezes your side and you nuzzle your head into his chest as if trying to hide away from every bad thing in the world. He really should’ve worm a shirt because having you touch his bare skin is way more distracting than he imagined. What would young Peter had done to cheer you up? Certainly not hold you close, his hormones couldn’t have taken that. They still barely can.

“ _Shhh_ … _Shhh_  now, Starlord’s gonna protect ya.”

“Jesus  _fucking_  Christ Peter I have yet to hear a lamer name.”

“Do you want to sleep outside?” Silence. “That’s what I thought…”

That quick  _thud thud thud_ of a blaring motor or a start of a motorcycle engine – his heart almost mimics the jumps. He wonders if you can hear it, with your head resting directly on the place of his heart that is.  _Fuck_ , can you hear it? That’s pretty embarrassing, but seeing as you’re still trying to occupy your thoughts with anything but the storm, you probably don’t even care. That or just holding your mouth shut because you don’t want to embarrass him. Which you would never do.

“Comfortable?” He asks, absentminded.

“Your skin is sweaty.”

“Are you sure it’s not you? I took a shower—Okay,  _okay_ , stop glaring, I was joking… _Joking_! Jeez, you look like a baby Krylorian when you puff up like that.”

“I will twist your nipple if you continue talking.”

“You’re assuming I’m not into that.”

“ _Issues_. You have them. I’m leaving.” You barely make it two inches away from him when his arm tightens around you and he pushes you back down.

“No, no, stay.  _Just_ …forget I said anything.” He closes his eyes, “Or…whatever.” You silently oblige, finding a comfortable position. The trip, the talk, the storm – it tires you out and you are fairly quick asleep. Peter stay’s wide awake through most of the night, his fingers still playing patterns on the soft fabric of your shirt as he stares into the depths of his ceiling again. The crew must’ve ‘fallen asleep as well since he misses the never ending clanking and Groot’s occasional exclamation, as if a reminder – he’s here, in this ship and don’t you dare forget it.

You feel nice. So  _fucking nice_  that he has trouble resting because of it. He can smell your shampoo, that’s probably one of the reasons he can’t exactly fall into dream land like you had no trouble doing. His mind races. He really should get some rest if he wants to annoy you in the morning, but he simply can’t. Plus, laying on his back isn’t exactly the most comfortable of positions and his right leg had fallen asleep a long time ago. He won’t move though. You look so peaceful he doesn’t want to ruin this for you. But just this once. And maybe next time if you really want to show up at his room again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> seriously this chapter is one of my favs EVER from anything i have ever written idk i just like it alot. also! keep in mind that the chapters of this story are written in two different POV’s, and they dive deep into what the character is thinking, so that’s why some info may differ from chapter to chapter
> 
> P.S. wrote this listening to sad 80s music smh


	3. way too much.

 

[music.](https://youtu.be/0GA74eFHF-Y)

 

He is used to the warmth of woman – after all, Peter Quill liked to have a companion next to his side when he slept. There is just something about feeling another’s touch, taste their perfume, let a familiar heartbeat lay you to rest…It’s comforting. It makes him feel less lonely than he has been for…who knows how long, really. But it’s mostly how the bodies mesh together into one, melting as limbs tangle and lips inch closer and closer unconsciously, an action that has no further motive but to be loved.

He is used to this, to the burning feeling of another’s soft skin pressing to his side and the soft fan of breath on his chest. His mind drifts in and out of sleep too often for him to actually get any rest. He’s anxious, he realizes, though would never admit it. He expects that warm body to leave soon. They always do when morning comes, and it always comes too soon. Except that he never feels bad for them leaving – another will come at night again, different face, different name, different personality. It’s almost an exciting adventure.

But it isn’t. He doesn’t want anyone else to lie beside him. He doesn’t want morning to come. He doesn’t want to let you leave, because he knows if he does then he can never hold you this close again. It pains him, strangely, perhaps he is too tired and it’s affecting him more than normal, or perhaps it was always like this but he simply didn’t pay enough attention.

When morning finally does come he halts up lazily, swallowing hard when he doesn’t find you in sight. The spot you slept so peacefully has gone cold. He sighs, running a hand through his hair and glances to the side –what time is it? His eyes accidentally catch a glimpse of something sparkly near his record player, and blinking the sleep out of his eyes he realizes it’s that Macy’s locket. Did you leave it? That’s a stupid question, of course you did, who else would?! He reaches to it and hooks a finger around the chain, yanking it close. When the last time he checked what was inside? ’98? ’02? Damn, long time ago…

He fumbles a bit – the trinket is small and the clasp is suited for long nails and slim fingers. When he finally does crack it open a breath catches in his lungs and---…nothing. He isn’t quite sure what he was expecting. Maybe a picture of him? A love note? A secret location of some sort? The same cut out picture of a woman that has a striking resemblance to you smiles at him. The picture looks faded, crumbled at the edges and is so small that he can’t really tell what color are your mothers eyes. Or maybe he’s just finally going blind after all those laser flashes. His hearing sure is taking a toll from shooting guns and listening to music loudly.

He should probably find you and give this back, the only real question is should he put a shirt on. His eyes wander to the dresser: there an edge of a grey shirt peaks at him. He narrows his eyes at it and clasps the locket shut. Shirts…so confining. No one will mind him wandering shirtless _IN HIS SHIP_. Yes, Gamora might throw up, but that’s hardly a problem.

 

~*~

 

Hot water. Scratch that, _boiling_ water and it feel absolutely amazing raining on your shoulders and sliding down your neck. You had opted to take a cold shower – gather your thoughts, get rid of the dizzy sleep spell, forge a façade that would carry you through the day…But the shower handle was already turned to hot so who are you to change the course of fate? The ship is stupidly cold in the mornings, at nigh too – must be because you aren’t exactly close to any star, just leisurely floating in space and space isn’t known for its warm temperature. During the day it does get pretty hot, though: no air conditioning and Peter’s terrible core and motors burn up dangerously. Jesus, can the mechanic in you shut it for just one moment?

Your fingers glide up your upper arms and you close your eyes in fear of water getting into them. The humidness is making it hard to breathe, but it feels so warm and nice you want to stand here forever. Okay, so not thinking about motors and other contraptions you spent repairing and creating when you were little, what else to think of…Little. How long was that ago? You and Peter are roughly the same age, maybe you’re a bit younger…To be fair you don’t exactly remember your exact birthday (it was not a necessity growing up). Peter and some other kids would always surprise you around (Birthmonth), though. You recall them once presenting you with a hologram they all made. As it turns out, some Yondu guy had thrown it out and they just happened to stumble upon it. So like any good outlaw, they took it, plastered their names all over it and gifted it to you. It was still touching and you were relatively happy. You think you still have that hologram lying around somewhere in your ship…

And Peter. Peter was the most proud of them all. Actually, he was the one that gave it to you. Presented with a nice bow and even wrapped it in some green and red paper he found whilst scavenging. You knew he wrapped it because it was an atrocious sight: duct tape everywhere, unevenly cut and the bow, _Jesus_ , the bow didn’t even look like a bow. Only when he pointed it out did you realize. You pitied him.

He’s a nice guy. If you can get past the layers of ego, flirtation and self-loathing. You think you caught a glimpse of that nice guy yesterday. When you came to his room. God, why did you? You run your fingers through your damp hair, trying to untangle it. To tell the truth, you really weren’t thinking. Storms always scared you. That’s the reason you reside in the quiet part of the galaxy, where they are either rare or nonexistent all together. You suppose it was the effect of the ship, him being within arm’s reach and the need of familiarity. Your mother had just passed away. You suppose you needed someone to remind you of home, or at least…The closest you were to home.

Shit, this is the exact reason you needed a cold shower. Best think of motors from now on. You turn the shower faucet and the water runs dry. _Locket, locket_ , you’ll have to go back and get it. He was dead asleep when you woke up and he looked so tolerable too. Like a puppy. Dare you say…Cute? _No_! You shake your head and stick your hand over the shower curtain, grasping for a towel. The chill bites your hands. _Peter Quill – cute?_ Never in a million years.

Finally, once the towel was safely wrapped around you did you carefully step out the shower and hiss when the tiles cooled your feet.

“Fancy meeting you here.” You nearly jump out your skin, snapping your head to the entrance. You almost couldn’t believe it – granted, you still feel a bit light headed from the hell shower (even the mirrors are fogged!), but there stands the man you’ve been thinking about non-stop for the better part of the morning, casually leaning on the doorframe. If the sneaky smile on his face is any indication, he’s enjoying the view. “ _Wait_ , let me guess!” He says amused, “You need an expert guide to show you around, don’t you? Bathrooms can be confusing.”

“There are only two shower faucets. I solved puzzles harder than this when I was eight.”

Peter shrugs, “It’s actually been stuck on ‘ _hot’_ for a while now.” He pretends to think, “Probably since…You showed up—“

You raise your hand, the other firmly holding onto the white towel dress, “ _Right_ , let me stop you there. Before you even attempt anything, let me put some clothes on.”

“I’m perfectly comfortable like this.” He states.

“Yeah, well, I’m not.”

“Want me to put on a towel too so we’d be on the same page?”

“ _Jesus_ —…Just leave.” You sigh. He doesn’t move. “… _Please_.” You say tiredly. He refrains from rolling his eyes. Pushing off the doorframe he raises a glittery chain and you squint – is that your…? Wordless, he moves in closer, stopping within arm’s reach.

“Whatever, I came to return this anyway.” He says, motioning for you to take it.

“ _Uhm_ —Thanks, I guess…” You reach for it but he yanks it away. You frown. He grins. “Peter. Give it back.”

“On one condition.”

You cross your arms over your chest, staring at him impatiently. Dew collects on your cheeks and shoulders, a stream of cold water rushes down your spine and makes you quiver. The fog starts fading, the humid air dissipates little by little as for a moment you wonder just what exactly does he want. He gazes at you in a way you know he’s enjoying this way more than you – maybe he’s expecting you to kiss him…No way! He wouldn’t do that to you! Why did you even think that?- Your eyes laser focus on his lips and you see them quirk at the side. God, he knows exactly what you are thinking. Heat rushes to your cheeks and you glance away.

“…Fine. Let’s hear it.”

“You have to address me as Starlord from now on.”

…Well that’s anticlimactic. He can ask for anything in the universe, granted you are only willing to do only select line of things, but still, you thought _THE_ Peter Quill had more imagination than that. Is being called _Starlord_ that important to him? Or does he do this because he knows you find the name stupid? A twinge of disappointment makes your heart thud and your brows knit together softly. The way he’s looking at you…Catching every detail of your face, counting the cold drops of water on your collar bones and calculating just how hard you’d kick him in the groin if he was to even attempt at yanking that towel down. Your gazes lock and your breath catches in the back of your throat: he looks smug as shit, but something behind that layer of cockiness makes you wonder for a heartbeat is he serious or not. Affection is what you’d call it if you had no common sense. No way does Peter Quill find anything affectionate about you.

You stand in silence for perhaps two seconds, “ _Seriously_?” Is all you say, ticking your head to the side. He blinks, offended.

“Do you want your 55ct’s back or not?”

 _Oh_ , now it’s personal. You take a step closer and point an accusing finger at his bare chest, “Okay _, first of all_ , it costs two dollars and sixty three cents, my mom said so! _Second of all_ , pick something else because only in your wildest dreams will I call you _anything_ that has ‘Star’ in it. _AND THIRD_. Why aren’t you wearing a shirt?”

“I already told you, I can put on a towel—“

“Just give it back, Peter.”

The playful atmosphere is all but gone and the air oozes with tension. And not the good kind you read in romance novels either. Your muscles tense and you note his jaw lock as his eyes narrow at you, any sort of welcoming emotion instantly replaced with a harsh barricade of controlled anger. You are no better and no different. Irritation grips your throat and it shakes as you glare at the small locket. This is the exact reason the two of you parted ways. You still hear the amount of colorful and spiteful words the two of you had exchanged and not in a joking or ironic way either. A very large gap forms between the two of you, filled with childhood rivalry and the mutual hatred for eachother. You hate that he can’t be serious about anything. You hate that he shuts you off with a joke. You hate that he doesn’t respect you, himself or anyone else for that matter. You hate his massive fucking ego…

….You also hate how quick you are to play victim. How you can’t admit a mistake. How hard you push him if he steps out of line. How you argue that you want to protect him, but in truth you just want to protect yourself from heartache.

In that gap there’s more self-hatred and miscommunication that either of you are willing to admit. So many insecurities and fears, worries and other forms of brain clogging mix and the only way you can express anything, whether it is concern for his safety or any form of actual platonic or not love, is via insults that hurt more than he wants to show and you want to realize. Your mother died _. Jesus fucking Christ_ , and you didn’t even say goodbye. You weren’t the best daughter, you were stubborn and you gave her a hard time. She worked so much to take care of you, and _never_ once did you even feel the need to say ‘ _Thank you’_. A strange sensation, one that leaves your fingertips tingling, shots up your body and you feel your eyes strain. You glance away. There is no way you are going to cry in a bathroom with a _fucking_ _towel_ wrapped around your body.

The silence weighs you down, him too. Clearing his throat he eases up, leans back and looks away from you as if he could bear to see you at the moment, “Alright. Answer my question and you can have it back.” There’s no anger in his voice and you feel so fucking stupid for starting this drama all over again. He sounds tired, he _is_ tired, you realize, the bags under his eyes don’t add any handsome points and the rough edge of his tone informs you that yes, he really doesn’t want to argue. You nod and wait patiently for him to gather his thoughts, “ _Why come to me_?” You blink, taken aback. Your mouth falls agape, “You know plenty, _plenty_ of people that can sneak you into Terra and do it willingly. Why did you come to me?”

You gulp. The saliva has a hard time travelling down your throat due to the massive lump stuck in the middle of it. Your fingers flex around the towel, aching dully from the hard grip. Why did you come to him? A number of reasons. One is that you missed him and wanted to bury the hatchet, but neither of you are ready to do that, your interaction a minute ago proves that much. But the main one being… _Fuck_ , how do you say this? He notes how uncomfortable you got, but refrains from ticking a brow. You take in a deep breath and release it softly, carefully re-reading the monologue in your head you had prepared once he did ask you this question. You expected it, just not on such harsh circumstances.

“I did something.” You start, “Something bad and now there is a bounty on my head so massive that I don’t trust anyone to safely take me to Terra without straying off course and delivering me to…Well, it doesn’t matter. It’s best you know as little of this as possible, I don’t…. Want to get you in trouble.” You add quietly, “I trust you, Peter. Despite our… _Differences_. Right now, you are the only one in the Galaxy that probably wouldn’t kill me at first sight.” You crack a shaky smile, “Well, I understand if you now want to, I’d appreciate if you didn’t, though.”

You wait for his reply but he just continues to look at you. Wordless, his fingers gently wrap around your wrist (the one that isn’t holding the towel-dress). His touch sends a hot ripple through your body and you faintly recall these same fingers playing patterns on your side as you slept last night. He lowers the locket into your hand and you grasp it. The interaction is peaceful, unrushed and not as awkward as you thought it was going to be. A shadow of a genuine smile plays on your lips and you lift your head up to thank him, but it’s almost like a cord is cut. He releases you and takes a step back, you can practically see a wall building between you two and something awful swishes in your abdomen, leaving you strangely cold. Peter grins, back to his lively old self that isn’t that lively or old.

“I can’t believe it, (Title)-good-shoes has gotten herself neck deep into trouble and is now in need of my help. You are lucky you’re pretty.” He winks. You feel bitterness rise in your throat, “Now, onto more important matters...I’d appreciate if you’d leave. I _really_ need to pee.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jfc all problems would be solVED IF THEY JUST TALKED TO EACHOTHER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! she doesnt know his mom called him starlord!!!! IT HURST WHY DO I DO THIS TO MYSELF  
> also thank you everyone for the kudos xx


	4. intrusive thoughts.

_Fuck_. That’s the only word he can think of to describe just how seeing you standing with nothing but a towel in front of him made him feel.  He sighs heavily, running a hand through his hair as he tries to collect those thoughts that were going ramped once you finally did leave, looking just as sour as when he had showed up, and he stares into the edge of the white tiles. _Fuck_. How did he manage to control his cool when you looked at him, so openly, with _nothing but a towel_? If he really wanted to, in his mind he could shed that towel and – _Fuck_. No. _No_. He can’t. Not now. You are in danger, hell, in big danger if you came to him, plus your mom died and imagining you naked is disrespectful. Sort of. Not like he can help it.

Another agonizingly heavy sigh.

 

|||

Did you hurt his feelings? Is he mad? _Why do you care so much_? These questions take turns in annoying you and out of sheer frustration you bite on your nails without much thought. You sit on one of the free seats as Gamora pilots Peter’s spaceship and tries to make conversation with you. Really now, you can do better than a few plain remarks and dull replies, but you can’t help it. After a while of talking – you honestly can’t recall about what – Gamora gives up seeing as you are terribly distracted. A knowing smile ghosts on her lips, but you fail to notice it too. She turns her head softly to say something to Rocket and you fidget, releasing a curt breath before falling deeper into the comfortable seat. Man, you just _have_ to ruin everything, don’t you? You and your stupid fucking ego. He was just kidding around; he of course didn’t know how much that locket costed and just how important it is to you. This is Peter, silly, flirty Peter and you just had to take out your insecurities on him.

Maybe it’s the no-shirt thing that distracted you from coherent thinking. _No, that’s silly_ and you shake your softly as a confirmation, not caring if anyone else saw. You slept with him, after all.

Wait no. No. _No_!

A new image rises in your mind, one you have as much luck in controlling it as the sudden heat rising to your cheeks – which is none. The precise feeling of his skin, his cologne, the welcoming warmth all stick to you, making you pleasantly tingle and you glance away from the big window to stare somewhere, _anywhere_ , as if that would help you shake the feeling of being close to him. The things he says, the strange look in his eye… _Could it be?_ No! Dear _God no_! This is Peter Quill!...

And yet, why do you feel so torn? So on edge? This is definitely not because of the fight, you had plenty of those back in the day and it always blew over fairly quickly. Why does this feel so personal? _Intimate_? You have no clue what to do, but you can’t keep sitting here and waiting for a miracle to happen. What do you want to happen? You don’t know either, and with that clarification you spring into action and stand up, a bit too suddenly and you stumble forward awkwardly. When you turn your head you see Gamora raising a brow at you and Rocket contemplating whether to involve himself with your meddling or not. He decides on the latter and with a light shrug, more to himself than you, he goes to construct some new weapon. The ship will be landing soon after all, best be prepared for whatever is out there.

The crew notices. Well, at least Gamora does. She notices the stinging silence between you and Peter. The heated look you give him from time to time, as if you want to say something but can’t, something is holding you back and each time you looked at him you wilted a little and turned away. Peter was different. Colder. He didn’t look at you at all. Didn’t try to catch you gaze or approach you. He was strict, to the point. A few jokes managed to squeeze through but they seemed forced. Gamora doubted Groot or Rocket noted this tension, an obvious statement that something not so pleasant had happened between the two of you, and even if they did she didn’t think they cared all that much.

This needed to stop, though. And needed to stop now.

It’s hot. Insanely hot on this planet and you release a soft breath, suddenly dizzy and clumsily you find your footing only after a moment. You dig your metal hilted boots into the sand and feel your feet cool. The air sticks to your skin, kisses your shoulders in red spots and collects dew on your cheeks, cupids bow, the arch of your brow and flat of your forehead. You wipe off the sweat and continue walking, not wanting to stay back. A soft breeze blows past you, but it’s anything but cold. Five suns mockingly shine and burn in the sky just above you.

You left Groot in the spaceship. Rocket proudly trots next to Peter with a gun bigger than his form in his hand. Gamora lags behind, making sure to pace herself evenly with you since you are the only one having a hard time. You’re not used to this kind of weather, nor carrying heavy machinery (unless you needed it to make more machines, screw some screws, melt some metals). _Girl-code: no woman left behind._ You truly appreciate Gamora’s dedication to help you out, even if it’s seriously nothing but slowing her step and keeping you company. You know that if she wanted she could lead this little expedition with no trouble at all. You smile at her. She smiles back.

_Girl-code: sharing problems is mandatory._

Her eyes trail Peter’s back and she’s lost in thought for a moment. You follow her gaze and glare fiercely, feeling frustrated and tired and indeed of a shower again, but this time with no Peter even near the bathroom. She notes the sudden spur in your step, fueled by anger no doubt, the straightening of your back and the thinning of your lips. She leans in, barely though, the corner of her lip quirking as she asks, “What happened?”

You snap to her, “ _What_?” There is confusion in your voice and your brows knot together. She motions to Peter. You blink. You sigh and your shoulders slump. The machinery in your hands slides in your palm and in a moment of panic you catch it, feel your muscles strain and you pull in close again. There is a pause. “That obvious, _huh_ …”

“Yep.” She nods, “You know, since we landed here to meet that creep for you and all, I thought the two of you would be at least talking. Calling each other names…The silence is a bit unnerving.” Her face falls still. She’s hesitating. “I’m just…” She looks away from you, afraid you’ll see right through her, “I’m just worried, I guess. About him.” She says with such tenderness you almost think a gun fired and the bullet went straight through you. You tighten your hands around the machine you carry and purse your lips, your eyes glazing with untamed anger and, dare you dub it, betrayal? _So much for girl-code..._

Gamora doesn’t look at you, merely watches Peter, tries to catch a snippet of what he’s saying to Rocket yet is still deep thought, “As much as I don’t want to admit it…He’s my friend. “

 _Oh_. You deflate, the anger in your chest doused with just that. You frown. What the hell is going on with you? You wonder and trail the line of footprints Peter and Rocket leave behind and they stride forward. “And I care about him. Don’t tell him I said so, thought.”

“I won’t.” Your words come out a bit forced, but she doesn’t mind, possibly doesn’t care.

“So… _What happened_?” She asks again, this time hoping for a sufficient answer. You think.

“We had a fight…It was pretty stupid and unnecessary.”

“Aren’t all fights stupid and unnecessary?”

When she puts it like that you feel even worse. Noting the shift in your mood, she leans in more, her voice dropping to a whisper, “You know…I haven’t seen Peter smiling like that in a while. Not that you’ve been staying with us long, but when you first showed up… _It really made him happy_.”

You can’t control the smile that cracks the cold facade, can’t control the blush that pinches your cheeks and has nothing to do with the horrid temperature, can’t control the sudden leap your heart makes nor the dancing step you took. You look away quick, your fingers curl on a strand of your hair and you push it behind your ear, looking straight ahead. Gamora watches you and you know she realizes just how unexplainably happy she made you, lifted the weight off your shoulders and let you breathe easier. With a pleased smile Gamora leans out and doesn’t bother you for the rest of the journey to Tom Tokos house.

The said man is a fidgeting mess with crooked glasses and untamed white hair. You find his small secured home in the middle of the desert, where Peter insisted it was, and the two men greeted one another with a firm hand shake and a passing snarky remark. They are friends or something along those lines at the very least.

“This might take a while…” Tom Toko insists, lifting his eyes up from the computer that quickly scans millions of billions of names. You had requested a fake pass to get into Terra. Tom Toko, upon Peter’s approval, got to work in an instant. For it though, he needs all the details he can find about you to craft something new. You had offered to share as much information as he needed, but he just scoffed and waved you off – the computer will do the job just fine, he insisted.

You tick an annoyed brow. _And me telling you wouldn’t ‘take a while’_? You muss, but refrain from commenting. Instead you come to look out the window into the mountains of sand. A few specs hit the glass. It’s airier in Toko’s home, cooler, the walls are thick and the sun barely reaches you over the roof. Tom mumbles something about getting the four of your drinks and leaves the living room. It buzzes with working engines. The computer dots off names with a strange popping sound. Gamora takes this opportunity to rush Rocket out the door, insisting that she saw something he could shoot at. He’d been craving to test his toys out for a while now, so he didn’t even question her.

The silence hangs heavy and you swallow hard. You feel Peter behind you, watching your every move, every curve of your body and count the drops of sweat on your shoulder. You feel self-conscious and you almost want to spin on your heel and gouge his eyes out. _Almost_. It feels nice in a way. You don’t exactly mind it. You want to mind it, you just imagined gouging his eyes out or at least calling him out for staring, but you soon grow accustomed to it and you make a decision to lean on your side more, sway your hips. _Why_? You don’t know.

You tilt your head to the side and out the corner of your eye you see him; his eyes roll from your ass and meet your gaze a bit too slow. A smile pulls on your lips, though it’s not menacing, not coy; it’s gentle, kind. It’s the last thing he figured you’d do after catching him checking you out. “I’m sorry.”

“What?”

“I’m sorry. For earlier.”

He has a hard time figuring out just what the hell you mean by ‘earlier’, but when he does he hums and pretends to be completely engrossed. To tell the truth he had already forgotten about your argument and it wasn’t what caused him to give you the cold shoulder. It was the fact that he couldn’t look at you normally anymore. Couldn’t talk to you anymore without thinking of you differently, in a way he shouldn’t. He didn’t want to force his growing affection onto you, didn’t want to drag you into his mess of feelings. You turn to face him. You are better at being just a friend. He doesn’t want you to be just his friend, more than anything in this world right now, he wants to push you just a bit closer to that window, feel your hot skin, your lips smashing with his as your fingers tangle and play with his hair. But he can’t. Rejection would be too great. He couldn’t recover.

He smiles, masking everything that’s boiling in him by glancing to the dirty tiles. “All is forgiven.” He says. It sounds too heavy, too raw for his liking, “Sorry for being a dick.” He adds to lighten the mood and it works. You crack a smile and shrug.

“It wouldn’t be you without the great amount of dickishness, Starlord.”

He didn’t catch on at first, he was about to say something snarly when it clicked in him and his heart dropped to his abdomen along with a twinge of arousal. Startled he looked up at you, saw you smile so beautifully that his throat went dry. 

 _Shit_ , just how hard did he fall for you?

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is so fun to write!!!!!!!! the different perspectives...ugh it should be illegal for him to be this hot. this chapter makes me so happy.  
> next chapter will be the last!


	5. an unflattering end.

_Fucked_. That’s one revelation going through his head as he stares at you with brief wonder of ‘ _Did you plan all of this_?’. He is _fucked_ , he realizes so, through-and-through, because when he meets your friendly open gaze all he can think about is kissing you and he has to gulp down those unsavory feelings and pretend that he isn’t a man that spent nearly twenty years in a desert and that you aren’t his fountain of clear cold water. You tilt your head. _Fuck_ , why do you do that? Your expression remains so soft and raw and you reveal more space on your neck for him to just…He doesn’t know. _Admire_? Yes, _admire_ is the PG word for it. He will stick with _admire_.

Your cheeks burn and you aren’t entirely sure is it the heats fault this time. Behind you, outside of the safety of Mr. Toko’s home, you hear shots being fired into mountains of sand and Gamora’s lazy clapping going along with Rocket’s excited screaming. His stare is making you a bit uncomfortable, mainly because it’s so intense and you aren’t used to be looked at like that. _Like what_?, the squeaky voice in the back of your fuzzy head inquires. You don’t know. _Like that_. Like he has seen you for the first time ever and he can’t look away or even blink. _Did_ he blink? Now that’s a bit creepy. But you hardly let that train of thought run as you don’t want to ruin whatever moment the two of you are having. It’s obviously important to him… You respect that, but why is it—

 _Oh_. The realization dawns onto you and your eyes widen almost comically as you take in a sharp breath. Did you just seriously call him ‘ _Starlord’_ for the first time ever without even realizing? It just slipped, as easily as a confession of love when you were little to this boy in your group that was the only one who never teased you. You suppose you recalled that exact moment because it is so similar to now: it was a slip of the tongue, you sprung your feelings free without realizing in the middle of him telling you how much he loved coral. In turn, you said you had loved him (which now, once you’re older and smarter, you realize it was merely puppy love). But this moment holds a different weight and different feeling. It’s almost like you’re acknowledging him as equal, as a person, and putting all that childish bullshit behind you. On _accident_.

He takes a step closer and you suddenly wish he saved all the dramatism for another time and just hugged you already. Or kissed you. Your heart jumps at the thought and you instantly focus on his lips that look so delicious in this warm sandy lighting. Perhaps he notes your wandering gaze because it takes him no time at all to let his hand land on your waist and gently tug you to his chest. Slowly you tilt your chin upwards, running your gaze along this face and admiring it for all its burly beauty. Letting the warmth of his skin seep through your clothes and spark excitement once the thought of smashing your lips to his came to mind as clear as ever. His look is killing you; it is safe to assume that you’re killing him too, by how precise and hungry he is.

It’s hard to breathe and you draw in slow breath that feels too hot to actually feed your lungs. The contours of the room fade into nothing as you focus whichever functioning part of your brain on Peter, and he does so for you. Your faces inch closer without any help, or logical thought for that matter, and you can practically taste him already. Your body yearns the touch and so your chest presses to his and---

A loud beeping sound scares you shitless and you abruptly pull away, snap your head to the computer and see it flaring in bright red flashing lights. Tom Toko crashes something in the kitchen – a glass you guess, since the sound was so sharp. Suddenly embarrassed and tingly you let go of Peter completely and he does the same. You pretend to not see the disappointment in his face as Tom Toko stumbles into the room and passes the two of you without a second glance. You pretend to not feel your own disappointment burn in your abdomen like hot coals.

You clear your throat and cross your arms over your chest. Peter, unsure of what to with his own, simply shoves them into the pockets of his jeans and turns to his slightly mad friend hitting the computer screen. Silence. The beeping has stopped and you feel more awkward than ever. Tom Toko fixes his glasses and his eyes go from the screen to you and back.

“(Name) (Lastname)?”

“Y- _Yeah_ …” You didn’t expect your voice to tremble. You clear your throat again and pray that this all will be done soon so you could go and hide somewhere in Peter’s spaceship and think all of this through. In a way you are thankful for the machine stopping that, whatever that was, from happening. The bigger part of you is sadder than anything, as you genuinely wanted him to kiss you.

You shouldn’t think that, you really _really_ shouldn’t think that.

“ _Ah_ , so…” Toko scrolls, narrowing his eyes and reading off the lines, “You live in Heine?” You nod, though are unsure if he saw or not. He scrolls some more, “With…Your husband L—“

“Wait, _what_?” Peter exclaims, snapping to you and a part of you dies inside. You gulp. Toko lifts his head from the computer and ponders whether he should involve himself with your meddling or leave the two of you to sort it out on your own. Neither, is what he decides, opting just to watch things unfold without throwing in his two cents. Peter frowns, trying to catch your gaze. You try to avoid his. “( _Name_ ),” holy shit…you last heard him say your actual real name at the end of your big fight that broke you two off. “You didn’t tell…You didn’t tell me you were _married_.”

You take in a deep breath, “It’s…complicated.”

He looks hurt. More hurt than you realize most likely, and when his jaw tenses and he looks away from you, in panic you realize that he is done listening to you. “Peter…” You say warily, but he doesn’t respond. “ _Peter_.” You call with more confidence this time, “Look, I was an outlaw, _yeah_? _You_ still are. And I needed to hide from the people that have been trailing me since—“ You try to recall, but your brain is frying and you can only vaguely remember todays date, “- _however_ long.” You finish dryly. He doesn’t buy it. “It’s a—“

“-False marriage.” Tom pipes up and the both of you turn to him. He shrugs, “I hear it’s pretty popular in Terra with visas and such. No idea what a ‘ _visa’_ is, though.” He finishes and you, with a new breath of hope, look at Peter as if saying ‘ _See? Makes perfect sense!’_. Peter doesn’t share your enthusiasm however. Not that being married is a big deal to him: he has loved many ladies, taken and not, but that wasn’t it. It was you. _You_ being married. _You_ lying to him. _You_ , in general, just you, why does his whole fucking planet have to spin around _you_ of all people? And why do you have to look so hopeful and desperate and why did you look like your dream was about to come true when he was about to kiss you? You, you, you… ( _Name_ ) ( _Lastname_ ). You’ll lead him to an early grave.

You bite your lower lip and roll in between your teeth – it hardly looks sexy (not that you intended it to be) – as a show of anxiety. Tom Toko single handedly decides that you all have overstayed your visit and mumbles something about making you the ‘ _damn passport’_ so you could all ‘ _get out of his hair’_.  It takes a couple more minutes for him to punch some things into the machine, type out a few words, and before you know it a fresh card with your pretty face on it and a bunch of fake information is handed to you. Tom Toko gave a strained, fake smile and plainly told you to leave and take your ‘pet’ with you before it destroyed his home by accident.

Silently, you and Peter waved that man goodbye and wordlessly left. Again, he chose to walk in front whilst you tagged behind and kept staring at that picture. It’s odd. You were never the one to stare at yourself in the mirror for more than necessary, perhaps that’s the reason why you find your mind drawn away from Peter and to the person you’re doing all of this for – your mother. You look like her, in a way. Some things are near identical, like the shape of your eyes and the tip of your nose. If you wanted to take the picture you have in your locket and compare it to your ID, you’d definitely notice even more resemblances. But you don’t. You can’t bring yourself to burn more energy than is needed to walk. You feel exhausted. Sweaty. Maybe a bit horny, but that’s a whole other issue.

A sense of dajevu washes over you as you and the gang make your way back to the spaceship. Peter and Rocket trot in front while you and Gamora, in much slower steps, lag behind. The said woman was hoping that something positive had happened between you and Peter, but much to her dismay it obviously didn’t. Once the ship was in eye-sight, she leaned over and whispered, “Hey, what happened? Did you have a fight again?” much to her surprise you shook your head.

“ _I_ …don’t know what happened, actually…” You reply raspy, watching the grains of hot sand stick to the sides of your shoe, “I…” You shake your head again, “I don’t know. I think I really messed it up this time, Gamora.”

~*~

You wanted to go alone. You insisted on it, actually. And you said your goodbyes soon after entering the spaceship: hugging Gamora and Groot and giving a high-five to Rocket since he didn’t want to share an embrace. You were ready to hop into your small _0.82 Yellow Stripe_ and possibly never see any of them again, except that Peter didn’t allow it. He promised to drop you off and that you had no say in it. He didn’t leave much room to argue, or to talk for that matter, so you found a comfortable seat and watched as slowly but surely Terra was finally seen by the naked eye.

Night. The air is crisp and cold and the wind howls occasionally along with a spooky hook of an owl. Far away street lights glimmer in the distance like fairy lights, and somewhere behind you a cat meows and knocks over a vase. The graveyard is quiet and vacant of any visitors. It took you a while to find your mothers resting place, and before you did you even came to enjoy the welcoming aura of being back at your home planet. Once you did finally read (M/NAME) (LASTNAME) on a chunk of marble whatever excitement and joy you were feeling was wiped clean and you stopped in your tracks. Peter did too.

He followed you, again, it wasn’t much you could do to stop him and you didn’t really want to either. Gamora opted to stay behind and look after the remaining boys, giving you one last shoulder squeeze and wishing you the very best. You really do like her. You hope you will be able to see her again.

It feels hollow, somehow, and a bittersweet smile makes its way onto your face as you re-read your mother’s name over and over again. You feel ashamed. Ashamed for not feeling nearly enough grief or pain. Perhaps if you lived with her you would be too heartbroken to stand. But now…It’s almost like reading a name of a stranger. You never got the chance to find out her favorite color, her favorite song or the day of the week. The taste of her perfume had long faded away and the delicate warm touch had cooled in memory. You can see her face clearly and it’s forever smiling thanks to the one and only photograph of her you hold dear to your heart. You have no clue how she looked when she passed, and perhaps that’s for the better.

You stare and drown in silence. Peter doesn’t break it; possibly he thinks this moment is too precious for you to be inconsiderate, when in reality it really isn’t. Your shoulders brush when he steps closer, but you don’t really pay it any mind. Only when his fingers intertwine with yours do you owlishly blink and glance at him, see him already looking at you but the curtain of darkness reveals no emotions or intentions. He squeezes your hand and something spurs in your chest, so powerful that you have trouble containing it. You squeeze back.

“No more secrets…” He breaks the silence, “alright?”

You smile tiredly, “No more secrets.”

He turns to your mother’s grave, “Did she name you?”

“She did.”

“Then Mrs. (M/Name) you did a damn fine job.” He cracks a small grin of his own, but it abruptly fades, “My mom named me too… _Starlord_.” His gaze shifts to you, “That was her nickname for me.”

“Oh, _fuck_.” Is the best you can come up with as you can practically feel the color drain from your face. “ _I_ -I didn’t… _shit_ …” If you had known how important that stupid word is for him you wouldn’t have made fun of him for so many years. He shrugs lightly.

“It’s no big deal.” Peter says, “I actually liked your various nicknames for me. Was fun to watch your imagination slowly detreating as you stuck with ‘ _dipshit’_.”

“Thought it suited your personality best.”

“It does.”

Having a heart-to-heart right next to your mother’s grave sure is morbid, but a part of you thinks she’s enjoying this just as much as you are. A couple of more minutes of content silence pass as you say your prayers and goodbyes, lastly turning to him and tugging on his arm gently, “Ready to go?” He nods, reserving all the ‘ _hell yeah’s’_ for another time.

You land on a quiet street with blank yellow light shining down on you and Peter. The spaceship is still ways away, and your own one is just beside it. You wonder should you really leave Terra, now that you’re back in and there is a whole whooping zero chance that anyone from out of space will come looking for you. With a fake ID and your mothers presumably unoccupied home somewhere around this town, you could live out the rest of your days in blissful peace, finally enjoying all the Terra things you always dreamed of – like gardening and stuff. You have never actually tried that, only read about it on a magazine a long time ago. It seemed fun, at the very least a way to pass time. Space fights and guns and loot were never your strong points, nor did you even find any joy in operating a spaceship.

Staying on Earth is really your best option. You could start a whole new life here. Possibly get a pet. Listen to sad 80’s music as an homage to Peter—

All of those bubbly thoughts of a new life with a white picket fence pop as soon as his name echo’s in mind. Peter Quill, the man you have known for pretty much your whole life, the man who had always had questionable intentions towards you, the man you cared enough about to bitch about, the man whose hand feels so nice and secure around yours and of which you don’t want to ever let go. Peter lives for the life you want to give up, _have_ given up, and there is no way he would quit it nor would you let him. You turn to him. The bleak light doesn’t do ill to his handsome face as he continues walking without a care in the world, even looking happy. He notes you staring at turns to you, flashes you a grin and you don’t have it in you to ruin his happiness for your own selfish desires.

But you can never be happy in space, even if he is by your side. You are no Starlord. Your place is here and you realize just how severely you missed Earth by the second. You trail his face, as if trying to print it into memory. You have seen it so many times, from up close and from far away, yet it’s always a sight for sore eyes.

“ _So_ ,” He starts and you are immediately drawn to his lips again, “what our course of action, Captain?”

You stop moving. He does too. With a deep breath, you try to collect your stray thoughts and form a coherent sentence. Your cheeks redden, heart quickens its pace. It seems like everything in your system is dying to tell him, but your mouth is unprepared and refuses to cooperate.

“Peter, _I_ …” Your gazes meet and the same wanton desire to kiss him washes over you like a wave, “ _I_ …” Words struggle to form and instead you inch closer as if it is a subconscious reaction. It dawns onto him, quicker than to you, and he meets you halfway as his free hand comes to cup the side of your jaw. His lips move against yours in a frantic, chaotic matter, as if he had waited for ages to finally taste you. It feels right, ultraviolet and dizzying and you have trouble standing. No one could make you part, not even a moving truck. Only except the need for oxygen; he slowly pulls away and in the nick of time you catch his lower lip with your teeth and lightly scrape it. Taking a deep breath you feel his forehead touch yours.

“Me too…” He murmurs, huskily, “ _Me too,_ (Name).”

It will hurt. You know it will hurt to leave him if you continue down this path, you know you are done for if you kiss him again but you can’t help yourself and he doesn’t either. You’ll solve this issue, tell him you want different things after you enjoy this brief true love you had wished your whole life for. And so you kiss him again, and again, and only when a moving car blares its horns does he with a hearty laugh tug you away from the speeding vehicle.

You will most likely die alone and forgotten like your mother had, leading an unhappy ordinary life. Because you _will_ say goodbye to Peter once morning comes, you _will_ break his heart and you _will_ live out your days on Earth, in a small home, where the only danger are taxes and possibly bears. _Is it worth it?,_ you wonder, holding his hand, _is it really worth being so selfish?_

You hope it is. You don’t let go of him until morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello everyone! i don't like happy endings so i didn't make one. sorry if it seems a bit weirdly paced or there are too many mistakes, it's just that this is the first thing i have worked on for a long long time (since i'm busy with college and other bs). anyway, hope you like this story till the very end! i will see you in my other fics, and thank you for all the comments and kudos and love. i love you , too


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